


light

by connections



Category: Psycho-Pass
Genre: Character Study, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hopeful Ending, also this is set pre-s1, honestly gino just needs a hug at this point, platonic!kougino
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23824888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/connections/pseuds/connections
Summary: It isn‘t about being thin, it‘s about disappearing. Glasses hiding his eyes, long bangs—once soft, now thinning out—covering his face, too-hot coffee and too-cold skin and not nearly enough calories and the familiar feeling of a world slipping from his grasp.Reality can be harsh. Eating is a difficult thing.
Relationships: Ginoza Nobuchika & Kougami Shinya
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	light

**Author's Note:**

> i really had to get those lingering thoughts out of my head, and i figured making gino suffer once again would be the way to do it.
> 
> ... anyways, enjoy!
> 
> // trigger warning: do not read if anything related to food or eating disorders (anorexia in particular) makes you feel uncomfortable or will influence you in a bad way. you‘ve been warned.

Things have changed.

  
Of course they have, they always do; it‘s the nature of life, and maybe, Ginoza ponders, his own life would be easier if he accepted it as a fact. But things as they are now are empty and _wrong_ and, well, it might very possibly be him—the odd one out who doesn‘t belong and can‘t move on and doesn‘t seem to get anything right in the process.

  
He shakes his head, readjusting his glasses; view hazy from staring onto the screen for too long. The coffee standing beside him is cold as he takes a sip, but it doesn‘t matter because everything around him is, always, and he doesn‘t care whether the shiver running through his body originates from the cool liquid, the porcelain mug or his own too-pale skin. It feels comforting, in a way.

„Gino?“

Kougami‘s voice sounds nearly as tired as Ginoza feels. Still, it holds an unmistakably warm tone, the contrast harsh against the monotone sound of the air conditioner running in the background.

His former best friend stands up from his own working station, shutting down the computer. His smile is crackled at the edges; the obligatory cigarette loosely clenched between two fingers.

The empty space between them stretches into eternity—anything that should be said is forgotten, consumed by a silence that seems to last. It will not be him to break it, Ginoza decides.  
  


„... just make sure you don‘t overwork yourself, alright?“

His quiet nod is a lie, of course. He will stay in the office all night, never even having planned on eating dinner, instead finishing the too-many case reports he still has to write because the letters won‘t stop dancing before his eyes.

The ashy smell of smoke lingering in the air is familiar, but since all those cigarettes aren‘t dangling from the lips of an once-vivid, too-reckless and now very dead enforcer, it feels as cold as everything else does.

The habit of smoking has been passed on from one bloodhound to the other, and it was him to be left behind, and now, smelling smoke means nothing more than the harsh biting of hunger in his stomach.

It‘s safer that way.

  
  


:::

  
  
  


Eating has become more difficult, Ginoza realizes one morning over breakfast. Scrambled eggs, some leftover rice; not as much as he would have eaten maybe some weeks ago, not nearly enough considering what he‘s going to eat for the rest of the day.

Yet he can‘t bring himself to pick up the chopsticks next to the plate, neatly aligned with the edge of the table—just because he doesn‘t really _need_ it and he isn‘t actually hungry and _it is too much —_

  
it isn‘t, of course.

Ten minutes later, the food has gotten cold. Sighing, Ginoza empties the plate‘s contents into the trashbin and hurriedly leaves for work.

  
:::

  
  


The shot from his Dominator was off, nearly missing the subject entirely; luckily, Kunizuka hasn‘t been as careless with her aiming. It always takes a moment for the Paralyzers‘ resonation to fade away, and the few seconds of silence that come after are a reward for succeeding.

This time, the quiet is interrupted by Ginoza‘s heavy breathing. He lowers the gun in his hands, arms shaking with adrenaline and a feeling of exhaustion that seems to be rooted deep inside his bones. 

He shuts his eyes.

„Are you okay, Inspector?“

Ginoza doesn‘t trust his voice to give a proper answer. Instead, he nods, leaning against the wall behind him. It takes a few minutes for his heartbeat to steady itself again; he feels lightheaded, but it‘s okay—it‘s fine. Well-deserved, at least.

  
„Good job.“

The hand on his shoulder is unexpected and belongs to someone who will be catching up on his too-bony frame rather fast—he jerks away, still panting, voice somewhat broken.

„You‘re not in the position to comment my work.“

There‘s a glimmer of sadness in Kougami‘s eyes, but Ginoza knows he‘s well-versed in pretending not to care. He shouldn‘t, just because Ginoza is the only one to judge himself and, in a reliable and constant manner, decide that he isn‘t enough.

  
  


  
:::

  
  


He doesn‘t know for how long he has been staring into that mirror, trying to find something, anything; his eyes are empty. Neither is there anything written onto his pale skin, its tone glowing sickly blue beneath the cold light in his bathroom; too-prominent cheekbones in a narrow face not providing advice, but accusing him—

of destroying himself; of still being too much, taking in too much space for the little usefulness he holds; of disappointing everyone because he always does—  
  


of not being sick enough, of not being good enough. Never quite enough.

He has gotten used to it.

  
  


  
:::

  
  


„Nobuchika? We‘re off to the cantine to get some lunch, maybe you‘re willing to set your work aside for a second and come with us?“

The sound of his first name has Ginoza‘s insides twist with anger and longing because he wants his father to _see_ and _for fuck‘s sake, he‘s his son, why doesn‘t he notice_ _—_

he decides to maybe skip dinner, too, for assuming that people would care.

„Uh, sorry, I really am behind with my duties. You go and enjoy yourselves.“

He looks up briefly, hollow gaze meeting ever-curious amber orbs, wide open in wonder. Kagari knows the carefully crafted expression of annoyance on his face too well to not see that it‘s off—faked, worn as a lifeless mask—but he has mercy.

„You‘re really working all the time, Gino-sensei! I‘ll happily write some of these reports for you if you tear your eyes away from that screen for half an hour.“

Ginoza can‘t even work up the energy to shake his head and dismiss the offer as stupid. He feels the younger enforcer‘s eyes wander over his face, his hands, clinging to the too-sharp angles and the fear luring beneath his skin.

„Don‘t you dare skip your meals, Inspector. You‘re skinny already. You work a lot, you have to eat, it‘s as easy as that.“

His words are careless, light as always; yet Ginoza knows for sure that the hound has taken up a trail, clearly smelling that something is wrong with him.

He doesn‘t dare looking at his father.

Masaoka‘s intuition is maybe the sharpest of Division One, _then why doesn‘t he care?_

  
  


  
:::

  
  


He‘s in control.

Numbers are more reliable than words can ever be; and there aren‘t any words anyway now, no smiling, no touching, the connections to anyone else drowned out by the emptiness inside him.

He doesn‘t need them, and the distance between him and Division One grows wider and wider because his body is too weak to keep up, but it doesn‘t matter because he‘s actually strong—finally having found something he‘s good at.  
  


Reducing himself.

It isn‘t about being thin, it‘s about disappearing. Glasses hiding his eyes, long bangs—once soft, now thinning out—covering his face, too-hot coffee and too-cold skin and not nearly enough calories and the familiar feeling of a world slipping from his grasp.

Not eating makes things less heavy. Hunger makes him feel light.

_  
  
He doesn‘t need to._

It‘s easy, thinking about it.

  
  


  
:::

  
  


The early darkness settling onto Tokyo like a heavy blanket matches Ginoza‘s mood. He clings tightly to the cup of coffee in his hands, nearly burning his skin, but the pain is pleasant. As is the cold wind. The shivering. The hunger, of course. He looks down onto his shaky fingers, feeling a bitter smile crawl onto chapped lips.

_It feels good._

Coffee mixes with ash, smoke; he would have recognized the footsteps behind him everywhere.

Kougami doesn‘t say anything—he just stands beside Ginoza, quiet and present, blowing smoke into the cold air from time to time.

„What do you want?“

The paper of the cigarette crackles as the enforcer carefully stubs it out.

„You‘re totally not fine. Don‘t argue with me, it‘s not like I‘m blind or anything.“

_You aren‘t?_

„It‘s none of your business.“

It‘s more of a whisper, rather a question. Still, the flash of worry clouding Kougami‘s eyes for a second hurts. It isn‘t supposed to.

_Everything is wrong anyway._

He‘s pulled into an embrace, the sudden warmth making him shudder even more, strong arms taking in how small his body has gotten—too-sharp edges, heart beating sleepily, skin as cold as ice, something just between a human being and a drawing composed of sketchy lines. What Ginoza feels, however, is real and maybe too much; rain streaming down his face, quiet sobs escaping from his lips, breath uneven.

  
„You‘ll be okay. I‘m here.“

Ginoza doesn‘t understand. He‘s broken, he‘s predestined to fall and shatter and be forgotten about, to disappear simply because there‘s no need for him.

He‘s disappearing.

_Why would you save me?_

Even Kougami can‘t reverse time.

_I‘m not worth it anyway._

Yet he holds onto his subordinate with all the strength left inside him, because who else will keep Ginoza from losing himself if not him?

  
  


  
:::

  
  


Division One moves on.

Of course they do, they have to, and they somehow manage to not leave him behind in the process. It‘s a cautious stageplay, the art of communicating through silence and quick gazes and, very rarely, words. Lying has become easy, being honest hurts, but it‘s okay.

It‘s only natural for Ginoza to fall again, but this time, losing control doesn‘t feel as threatening. There‘s always a glimmer of hope left for him in the too-bright eyes of a younger colleague with a steady voice and strong beliefs—

it tastes like purpose. Ginoza finds he rather likes it.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! comments make me jump around in my room at 2am like a (very happy) madman!
> 
> @ ginoskanshikan on twitter


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